


Songs I Could Sing

by SmartKIN



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (as in stains on a shirt), (only champagne no heavy drinking), Alcohol, M/M, Mild Blood, Prom, Slow Dancing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmartKIN/pseuds/SmartKIN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles thinks he won’t get to dance at his senior prom. (Peter disagrees.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs I Could Sing

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ages ago but never had the motivation to finish it, thank God for the [Stiles Rare Pair Week](http://twrarepairnetwork.tumblr.com/post/137481905069/introducing-stiles-stilinski-rarepair-week-what)! Let me know what you think (I never wrote a dancing scene before) :D
> 
> Also, read this on my [tumblr](http://lloydoholic.tumblr.com/post/138841008609/songs-i-could-sing-steter), if you'd rather~

When Stiles pulled into the parking lot it took him a while to find an empty parking space. Even though it was only senior prom it seemed as if there were even more cars crammed in the small lot than usual. In the end he parked on the far side, which was double the walking distance in comparison to the lucky bastard who had managed to snag a spot closest to the entrance. But after the day he’d had, Stiles didn’t particularly mind.

He killed the engine and then just sat there, staring at the building with a resigned expression on his face.

Stiles should be happy. He had secretly doubted that he’d survive this long ever since meeting his first werewolf. But instead he just felt exhausted and empty. And not just because he was late to his own prom, and without a date.

He had been so excited – his friends had promised to dance with him, and not all of them had even tried finding a date. They had planned for it to be a fun night for the whole group.

Leave it to the supernatural to interfere with their plans.

When Derek had called him, unable to reach Scott, and sounding terse and a little desperate, Stiles had already been on his way to the school. Wendigos had unexpectedly entered the Hale-McCall territory and Derek needed assistance.

For a brief, selfish moment Stiles had considered rounding up the whole pack, even if it wasn’t necessary. His magic was strong, and Derek would be able to handle the rest. They had done so before. So instead of telling his Alpha to cancel their prom, he’d made sure that his bag of magical goodies was still in the trunk and told his pack that he was going to be a little bit late.

But right now he didn’t want to think about wendigos anymore; he would sport some impressive bruises by morning and there was blood on his dress shirt (not his own). No need to relive painful experiences.

Stiles dragged a hand over his haggard face. He had wanted one night... _one night_ of normal high school fun. His prom, a rite of passage.

But no.

He couldn’t possibly enter the gym soaked in sweat and blood, his hands and pant legs dirty from soil and torn by the unrelenting underbrush. His tux was rumpled and his hair a mess, there was just no way he’d be able to enjoy the rest of his evening side by side with his class mates.

A weary sigh escaped his raw-bitten lips and he glanced toward the backseat where he had stored a bottle of champagne, something to spike their punch with. Or to down on the way to the after party.

Feeling sorry for himself he grabbed the bottle and got out of his car. At the very least he could drink the champagne, even if he didn’t get to dance. His phone chirped with the umpteenth message and he ignored it like all the others, slipping the phone into the pocket of his ruined pants.

He thoughtlessly locked his Jeep and then wandered across the dark parking lot. The air was still thick with the heat of the day, despite the late hour, and he was uncomfortably aware of a single droplet of sweat trailing slowly down between his shoulder blades. What a night.

As he got closer to the school, he saw a couple of kids sitting outside, laughing and carefree, and grew strangely wistful. He hadn’t been this young in quite a while, he realized, none of them had. It seemed almost frivolous now that he had wished to be like them, to enjoy their traditions when he’d slowly become something else, something wild and a little broken.

Stiles sneaked quietly past them, glad that nobody paid him any attention, because he didn’t feel like explaining himself. Another school dance interrupted by a vision out of a horror movie. If he weren’t so secure in his knowledge that he was able to defend himself, he’d have nightmares of this place.

Trailing the dim-lit corridors by himself, bottle of champagne hanging loosely in his hand, he felt the pulsing beat of the illegible music seeping into his veins. For a moment he closed his eyes, magic humming just underneath his skin. He might not be able to attend his own prom, but at least he had this.

It took him a couple of minutes to head upstairs to the roof of the school. And while nobody was technically allowed to be up here, the lock had been broken for as long as Stiles could remember, the roof being used as a not so secret hangout for the not so secret smoking breaks of rebellious teenagers. Since none of Stiles’ friends smoked, he was rarely up here. But now it seemed like a good idea, unwinding and drinking his booze in peace. He’d eventually find the energy to reply to the messages on his phone, and would stop feeling sorry for himself.

When he stepped onto the roof, there was no breeze to cool his feverish skin, and he set down the bottle before shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting it drop to the ground. He picked up the champagne and screwed open the cap. He took a big gulp as he ambled across the building, toward the edge. There was a brick-built banister lining the roof to make sure it was at least somewhat safe to be up here, and he leaned against it now, letting the sour taste sit on his tongue, the sharp prickle of champagne rouse his spirits. He sat the bottle down beside him and supported his weight with his folded arms, surveying the dark parking lot and the surrounding woods from his vantage point.

It wasn’t as peaceful and quiet nor as melancholy as he had expected it to be – the noise drifting upward from the gym was a booming pulse encroaching on his solitude. Instead he felt nothing in particular, perhaps a tad bored. He uncurled his body and took another sip of champagne, more cautious now the he had reaffirmed his dislike for it.

He stood there, lost in thought, until a sudden voice rang out behind him. He flinched so hard that he almost dropped the bottle.

“Shouldn’t you be with your little friends?”

Clutching his chest, Stiles whirled around.

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?”

His heart was banging a mad rhythm against his ribcage. What the actual hell.

Peter cocked his head, pretending to mull it over.

“Hmmm, not today,” the man offered, his expression one of carefully studied innocence.

“Well, don’t sneak up on me then,” he muttered, “God.”

Silence settled uneasily between them in which they observed each other, Stiles taking in the unruffled perfection that was Peter freaking Hale, not a hair out of place, groomed goatee, V-neck that seemed to be deeper every time they crossed paths. He tried not to let Peter’s roving gaze bother him too much.

The werewolf strolled closer, as unconcerned and entitled as ever.

“You shouldn’t go hunting in a suit.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned away, putting down the champagne and propping his arms once more on top of the banister overseeing the parking lot.

“Derek was being attacked by wendigos, there was no time to change.”

The werewolf made himself comfortable beside him, leaning his back against the brick rail and facing the opposite direction.

“How selfless of you.”

“Shut up.”

They lapsed into silence.

Peter picked up the bottle of champagne and studied the label. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles could see his grimace.

Dick.

So he hadn’t bought the most expensive champagne out there, it all tasted the same to him anyway. Without commenting on Stiles’ poor life skills, Peter took a swig – it did wonderful things to that neck of his, not that Stiles was paying attention.

Setting down the bottle with a hollow clink, the werewolf turned his head a little to look at him.

“Do you want to dance?”

Stiles almost chocked on thin air.

“What?” he squeaked, his voice embarrassingly high.

Peter shrugged.

“It’s your prom, don’t you want to dance?”

Stiles suddenly felt embarrassed. It was one thing to sway in the arms of another teenager, but dancing with an adult? Who generally seemed classy enough to enjoy expensive red wine, designer clothes and _actually knew what he was doing_? His heartbeat stuttered awkwardly in his chest, he could feel it try to cope with the situation and utterly failing.

“Uhm…”

He had no idea what to say. And apparently this was the only time in their lives that Peter decided to patiently wait him out and it was also the one time Stiles wished he wouldn’t.

He tried again.

“So, uhm, I don’t actually know how to dance, like, properly?”

And there was that look again – filled with curiosity and mocking innocence. The one that usually caused Stiles to question the life choices that led him to be acquainted with Peter Hale, but now only made him breathless with anticipation.

“I didn’t realize prom required ballroom proficiency.”

Stiles snorted, ducking his head.

“Touché.”

“Well, then.”

When he looked up, Peter was still staring at him expectantly. So this was really happening, huh?

An idea suddenly hit him, and he pulled out his phone while ignoring the warmth blooming in his belly. With slightly trembling fingers he searched the Internet for a suitable playlist and hoped that his battery wouldn’t die on them too soon. He hit play and placed the phone gingerly next to the bottle of champagne. A slow, gentle melody swirled through the air, tinny and surreal in the vastness of the night.

Peter offered his hand and it seemed almost lewd to take it. When he did, their palms slid across each other, sending a spark through every nerve ending – a single touch and it already ruined him.

Peter’s grip tightened and he drew him closer, free arm coming up to encircle him, the other hand settling in the low of his back.

Stiles gulped and stared at the man like a deer caught in the headlights, heartbeat a fluttering creature in his chest, his throat. Everywhere they touched – and everywhere they didn’t – it felt as if electricity was dancing across his skin. Utterly afraid of his own emotions, he huddled a little closer, curling around the man’s side, his hands sliding around Peter’s broad back, and, losing a battle with himself, rested his cheek slightly against Peter’s shoulder.

This embrace was even worse – the man’s intoxicating scent filling his nose, the warmth and soft material of the Henley caressing his flushed skin – but at least he didn’t have to look him in the eye.

Peter hummed in satisfaction and Stiles felt the sound reverberate through him, a low rumble that made his mouth run dry.

Then, the werewolf started moving, slow swaying motions in tune with the bittersweet melody drifting towards them from the small speakers of the phone. It was so easy to follow his lead, moving with him, their feet barely carrying them from their spot, and so hard at the same time, the entire length of their bodies touching, choking his breath and stealing his thoughts.

Stiles let his eyes flutter close, overwhelmed by the turn of events and simply learned to live with the nervous energy coursing through his veins, the sizzling undercurrent that accompanied all of their interactions now amplified a hundredfold.

At that point it seemed only natural that Peter would turn his face into the warm curve of his neck, nosing his skin and humming the refrain of the song, prickly stubble causing a slight tremor whenever it grazed him.

This wasn’t how he imagined his prom night to go down; it was intimate, and slightly bizarre to be up here with Peter, blood stains on his shirt and dancing to low-quality music. And perhaps he shouldn’t enjoy himself so much, all things considered, but after the day he’d had, he couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be, sharing his personal bubble with Peter Hale, drinking lousy champagne and waiting for the music to stop.


End file.
